


Incidental

by dahdeemohn



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, Ambiguous Relationships, Animal Hospital, Boundaries, F/F, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slice of Life, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahdeemohn/pseuds/dahdeemohn
Summary: This is the modest tale of some modest folks in a modest New England city.An offshoot/prequel/sequel to Syncopation





	1. Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt to write 700-1000 words a day, mostly focused on [Syncopation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6979618/chapters/15906601) because I kept promising people that I would. It might be worth reading firsthand to get some of the references in this, but at the same time it's probably not required.
> 
> I also want to give a lot of credit to sanidine's world building narrative style in [Beat The Devil](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8081914/chapters/18519178) for this. I had a lot of ideas for how I was gonna bring together a bunch of short stories in this particular AU, but no direction about how to do it until I had read that fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing bad happens, but a scene in this may make some readers uncomfortable. Please see end notes for a thorough warning if you're concerned about the tag.

Dean unceremoniously dropped the cardboard box that contained his possessions in the middle of the kitchen floor, then kicked it off to the side and made a beeline for the liquor cabinet. A bottle of Talisker 18 was yanked from out of its satin blue box, intended to be saved for the bitchin’ house party that he was going to throw after he’d fully unpacked and settled into his new place, but right then it looked more likely than not that he’d have to flip the loft condo that he’d just put a downpayment on. A drinking glass was briefly entertained after the Talisker was uncorked, but that idea was discarded entirely and Dean brought the opening right to his mouth; it accompanied him into the bathroom, where he kicked his pants off as he took a leak, and then into the bedroom, set down on the nightstand so that he could scream and curse into a pillow until his throat was raw and more scotch was washed down to add to the burn.

It wasn’t the first job that Dean had gotten fired from, but it was the best one that he’d ever had **and** it was the first time that it wasn’t his goddamn fault. “ _Rollins_ ,” he rasped out to the empty room, struggling to undo his necktie as the temperature of the room elevated and his head started to spin, and managed to at least get the work shirt unbuttoned before leaning over the side of the bed and vomiting. Head was thrown back, eyes were shut, and there were no thoughts about the putrid puddle on his carpet which had transmogrified from $150 worth of liquor.

The hangover wasn’t unexpected, but the set of text messages from Roman with offerings of fast food breakfast items that had both woken him up was a surprise. Dean really didn’t want to be bothered, but more than that he really wanted a McGriddle and hash browns, and in the end he accepted the generosity and let Roman in. For a while they ate in silence, greasy wrappers quickly accumulating on the coffee table, and after the last drop of orange juice was consumed, Dean mumbled a “thanks” as he stared at his empty cup.

They briefly lamented, wondering what had gone so wrong at Shield Marketing and why they hadn’t been warned about the sale. There was a tense moment where they eyed one another suspiciously in regards to the incriminating emails that neither had sent but both had been blamed for, for the allegations against them that were not committed, and yet there was so-called evidence. Roman had already hired a lawyer to sue for wrongful termination and a few leads for a new job. And Dean...

Dean was a high school dropout and a convicted felon due to a drug deal that had gone terribly wrong ten years ago, and hemorrhaged his earnings because growing up poor meant that he didn’t have a fucking clue about managing finances. He’d started working for Shield Marketing when it was in the infancy stages of being a start-up because he was a smooth talker and knew Seth, so they took a chance on him. Just when greener pastures were closed in on and he found some semblance of stability for the first time in 29 years, it’d been wrenched from his grasp. Pension and benefits, contacts and references, and everything else useful on his resume that he’d spent the past four years accumulating gone. _And it wasn’t even his fault._

Before Roman left, he assured Dean that he’d call him if he found any extra work and that they’d be in touch soon. Real soon. The condo was empty and quiet again, and Dean stared at all of the cardboard boxes that hadn’t been unpacked yet, that wouldn’t be unpacked probably ever. Leftover napkins from the McDonalds bag were gathered and dropped onto the vomit stain, which had dried long ago. The rest of the day was spent mostly horizontal, be it on the sofa or on the mattress, vacantly staring out the window or at the ceiling and wishing that he had the energy to maybe pack a bowl.

Text messages fueled with vitriol were typed up and sent to Seth, but every time Dean checked to see if there was a response, the ‘delivered’ status still hadn’t changed. “Fucker,” he muttered, suspecting that maybe his number had been blocked. When apathy dissolved and gave way to restless energy, something familiar and comforting, a hoodie and a pair of gym shorts were picked up out of the hamper and pulled on, and he ventured outside. The sun had already set, so by the light of the street lamps Dean jogged, feet steadily pounding over the pavement and wind in his hair and heavy breathing the only certain things when everything else was crumbling. The late-June heat swelled and made the hoodie a truly poor choice in garments, but he just rolled up his sleeves, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and aimlessly continued.

He jogged for what must have been hours, until his legs felt like jelly and it hurt to inhale, and slowed himself down to practically a crawl when he approached a bridge that stretched over the bay outlet and the harbor. At the arch he stopped entirely and looked over the metal wall, barely making out the water below, then spit out a large glob of phlegm that took several long seconds before a _plop_ echoed back at him. How shallow was the water? How far of a drop was it? If he hoisted up one leg and then another, could he take a leap and disappear? 

Would anyone even miss him? 

Skin went clammy, and Dean thrust himself away from the edge, his head whipping back and forth and suddenly very self-conscious. Several yards away, some guy walking a red bicycle slowly approached, but his attention was fixed on where the ships were sheltered in the harbor. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye as he tried to steady his hands long enough to retrieve a cigarette and lighter from the hoodie pocket. When the guy got within hearing range, Dean shakily called out with “Nice night, huh?”, and the stranger paused in his tracks with an expression that clearly indicated he wasn’t prepared to have a conversation. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Dean was sweaty and disheveled with puke-breath and dirty clothes on and looked like he was about to mug someone; the self-awareness made him wish that he’d jumped instead of bothering some poor hipster probably trying to get to Earth Eagle Brewings or some shit. 

“It is, yeah.” The man smiled nervously, the lilt in his accent completely catching Dean off guard and he stopped himself from bringing the cigarette to his mouth. They stood there in awkward silence for a few beats, and Dean didn’t understand why this stranger didn’t move on already until he was asked, "Hey man...are you OK?"

"Huh?" Dean's eyes widened, and the stranger's gaze darted towards the water for an instant and then back at him. Fuck. "Yeah...yeah I'm good. I am."

"Alright." The response was saturated in hesitation, escalating an already uncomfortable situation into something downright insufferable.

“What?!” Dean suddenly exclaimed, throwing his arms out and causing the other man to step backwards, then he lowered his voice to something gruffer. “Said m’fine.”

“OK.” The man nodded and got onto his bike. Before pedaling away, he looked at Dean one more time and said, “Be good and take care, yeah?”

“Will do,” Dean snorted, finally placing the cigarette in between his lips, and the stranger was gone. Solitude returned and blanketed over his mind like a thick fog, amplifying the haze and static of his thoughts, and he resumed his trek at a leisurely stride.

Later, after the butt was tossed to the ground and the pace picked up, a police cruiser with its lights flashing and siren blaring rushed by, and Dean felt his heart leap out of his chest from sudden sensory overload. He watched it drive to the bridge and park on top of the arch. It was impossible to make out any individual figures in the dark, but there were voices distantly shouting. The beam of one flashlight and then another shined brightly, one quickly moving back and forth along the bridge’s walkway, the other pointed at the water below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: brief suicidal impulse while on a bridge


	2. Maybe

In movies and TV there was something magical about 'the morning after', where maybe you realized the true depths of your feelings as you watched the other person gradually awaken and there was no such thing as morning breath. Where everything was a little kinder and warmer than it was the day before. Happy endings could be found in this blissful, wonderful place.

And as Sami stared up at a framed Tool tour poster, in a bed that wasn't his own, he really wished that he could relate to what all the stories had told him.

It was the first time that he'd actually spent the night at Corey's instead of ending up leaving when the afterglow had worn off (not thrown out, it wasn't that at all! he'd been assured of this a few times now), and he'd hoped...he didn't know what he'd hoped for. Maybe not this.

Anxiety was a natural part of Sami’s life, imbedded in the very chemical makeup of his brain and currently unregulated since his health insurance had changed and didn’t cover the medication costs anymore, and really who had the time to see a psychiatrist; so he’d spent a lot of times just trying to drown out the Bad Thoughts or applying logic when necessary or just assuring himself that he wasn’t as terrible as he thought he was. That maybe people didn’t hate him, or sometimes even being so bold as to thinking that maybe he was liked by a few people. At least Corey must’ve liked him enough to let him spend the night, he must’ve liked him if they were...kind of dating?

That’s what this was, right? They hadn’t put a label on it, but they got coffee together (or rather Sami would usually bring Corey coffee, since he worked right next door), and they went to concerts in the area together. Sometimes Corey would ask him to come over and they’d play Rock Band or scary video games together, and they’d end up fooling after a while so that was always a good time. They really had a lot in common! And Corey knew how Sami felt, he’d nervously gushed to him after the first time they did it how long he’d harbored a crush; the response was a playful laugh and a light punch in the arm, along with some comment like “no wonder you were so easy”, but not in a mean way because that was just _Corey_. 

So they continued on like that for months: hanging out and making out. A few times Sami asked if Corey might like to go out to dinner, but the invitation was never met with positive reception. One time he offered to cook for them at his place, something less formal because maybe the problem was that Corey wasn’t interested in conventional-style dates, but that idea was met with rejection as well. And it was fine, really. They’d finally spent the entire night together so this had to be progress, right?

The blankets rustled as Corey stirred to consciousness, dragging Sami out of his thoughts, and instinctively he rolled over to snuggle up next to him but stopped himself. Corey wasn't too big on hugging or anything like that, said he didn't like feeling restrained, and Sami respected that. They held hands when they bingewatched shows on Netflix, so he knew that it wasn't, y'know, _him_.

"Oh. Hey." Corey yawned, and Sami felt himself beaming brightly.

"Morning!" He happily chirped out, and Corey chuckled. They stared at one another for a moment, and before Sami had the chance to act on the desire to lean in and place a kiss on his forehead, Corey sat up and stretched.

"Fuck, what time is it?" Corey craned his neck one way and then the other, and Sami dared to gently trace the sun tattoo on his right shoulder blade with a few fingertips.

"Quarter after 9. You wanna, ah-" Sami stopped himself for a moment before regaining his voice. "Wanna go get some breakfast?"

"Nah, I got shit to do." Corey shrugged and threw his legs over the side of the mattress, pulling away from the the caress, then looked behind him. "But...iunno, maybe another time? That cool?"

"Oh, yeah!" Sami nodded. He thought for sure breakfast would have done it. Everyone loved breakfast. Oh well. "So are you opening the shop today, or is Baron?"

"Both of us. We got a lotta appointments booked today."

"How's his apprenticeship coming along?"

"Why? You want some ink?" An eyebrow arched.

"No, just," Sami momentarily pursed his lips in frustration. "Was just wondering, is all."

"Relax, babe. I'm messing with you," Corey snorted, ruffling Sami's hair before he stood up and wandered over to a dresser. "You need a ride back to your place?"

"Nah, I can walk." The response was nonchalant, it had to be.

"Cool. See you around then?" Corey stated as he pulled a white v-neck on and smoothed his own hair back in the mirror.

"Definitely." They kissed goodbye on Sami's way out, and he hit the pavement with a smile on his lips and a spring in his step and concerns mostly quashed about the status of whatever they were. Goodbye kisses weren't a casual thing, right? At least not in America. Sami had never seen movies where people that didn't care for one another kissed like **that** , so it had to mean something to Corey as well. Maybe keeping a label off of this thing made it more special, and hey, times were changing after all! But.

But. Why was he still getting dodged whenever he’d bring up going out to eat together? Or go out bowling or even just taking a walk in Prescott Park? And it was never a firm ‘no’ or ‘I don’t want to go out with you’, but rather a ‘maybe later’ or ‘another time’, and then an invitation extended to come over instead. Just then, Sami’s stomach grumbled, and he realized that he couldn’t sort his head when he was hungry. Luckily Corey lived just a few blocks from the best café in the entire world with the friendliest barista ever at the helm, so between that and getting a good morning kiss, everything was going to be OK!

More good fortune came in the form of a short line, and Sami quickly found himself at the register, happily chatting along with Bayley. Once the rest of the customers cleared out, she planted both hands on the counter and her bubbly smile turned to a devious grin.

“So why do you smell like stanky cologne?” her tongue barely poked out of the side of her mouth, and Sami gasped.

“It’s not! It’s nice!” he insisted. Corey _did_ tend to wear his cologne on the heavier side, however.

“Sure, sure.” Bayley shrugged innocently. “You uh, got a little something on your neck, by the way.”

“Oh.” Sami felt his face flush and instinctively brought his hand up to try to cover up the mark.

“So how come you never bring him around here?” Bayley gathered up a rag and some disinfectant spray and came out from behind the counter, wiping down the back corner table first.

“Ah, well.” Sami took a sip of his drink. “He’s really busy. Our schedules don’t usually line up, y’know? To go out and stuff.”

“Must be tough.” The tone was mostly sympathetic, but there was something distant, hollow in the words.

“It’s fine.” Everything was fine. Sami took another sip. “Like we hang out a lot later at night, after he gets out of work.”

“Oh, so are things getting serious?” Bayley waggled her eyebrows and Sami barked out a laugh.

“I...guess?” How much was too much information? Was finally spending the night with someone you’ve been seeing (Sort of seeing? They were seeing each other, right? What was the terminology for this?) for the past few months considered ‘serious’? Sami shook his head a little when he saw the concerned look flash over Bayley’s face, but only for a moment.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to make assumptions!” she waved her arms as she hurriedly apologized, and Sami waved his arms back with equal urgency.

“No, don’t be! I um-” Sami finally settled down. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Know about?” The ‘o’ was drawn out for a little bit, and Bayley slowly pulled out a seat and lowered herself onto it, hands neatly folded in front of her. “You wanna talk?”

Sami went to protest, to say that there was nothing to discuss and that he was great, really, but his body acted of its own accord and he sat down as well. He could feel her gaze on him, and he kept his focus on the drink in between his hands. “We’ve been doing this for a little while now, and I’ve liked him for a really long time and it’s a lot of fun. I just.” Sami looked up. “I don’t know what we are?”

“Well you guys are dating, right?”

“It’s never been clarified.” Sami laughed nervously, scratching at his beard. “Like we hang out a couple of times a week, usually at his place. It’s fun! But I sorta wish we’d go out and he doesn’t seem to ever want to? Or no, it’s not that; he’s usually busy. I get it.”

“Sami,” Bayley started, but Sami shook his head again.

“I mean I’m probably making it sound bad but it’s not, honest!”

“Have you ever talked to him about how you feel?”

“Yeah, a couple of times. Like he knows. And we’re still spending time together so...so he’s gotta like me back, right?” he took a sip of his drink, and noted the way that Bayley chewed on her bottom lip.

“Has he ever said it back?”

“Well y-” Sami cut himself short and tried to jog his memory. Corey had said it back, he must’ve. There were so many times he’d affectionately tease Sami, calling him names but like not in a mean way or anything! Or how he’d say how hot he looked when he was moaning or begging or giving a blowjob or getting fucked. How he said he teased because it was cute when Sami blushed. How he remarked how good Sami's ass looked in skinny jeans. But. “Not yet, no.”

They sat in silence for a moment, and softly Bayley asked, “Sami, what is it that you want in a relationship with someone else?”

“I just wanna have fun, like with a friend.” Sami smiled, but it faded as soon as it appeared, and he swallowed hard. “Just...wanna...I don’t know, listen to music with them kiss and hug and love them and know that I’m loved. But that stuff takes time, Bayley!”

“It does, Sami.” She agreed, but it didn’t feel good. It wasn’t the kind of empathy that he needed right then. It was quiet again, and Sami picked at a paper napkin that sat on the table.

“Bayley, I’m likeable, right?” Sami almost didn’t recognize his own voice, and he bit the inside of his cheek, and her face dropped. “Do I have at least a few redeeming qualities? I...I know I get on people's nerves, maybe-”

“What the heck kind of question is that?!” Bayley suddenly exclaimed, standing up straight and her ponytail bouncing back and forth as her voice elevated. “Dude you are the nicest and most fun guy EVER! It’s always great to go on adventures with you as a friend, and I’m sure that your dates would be a million times more fun than that!”

“Are you just saying that because I tip well?” Sami grinned sheepishly.

“No! OK maybe a little, yes.” She sat back down and glared at him. “Look at me. You look me in the eye.”

“Alright! Alright I’m looking!” He giggled.

“Sami Zayn, record store owner with the grandpa hat and my favorite customer and my good friend. You are a delight. A ray of sunshine. And some day some guy is going to be super lucky and get to experience one of your dates and it’ll be SO amazing. I promise. You are worth going out with.”

It wasn’t on Sami’s morning itinerary to break down in the coffee shop to Bayley, who was on the clock, but something inside his chest felt like it imploded and once the tears started freely falling she ushered him into the back room and taped a hastily made sign onto the front door’s window that said **BE BACK IN 15 MINUTES**. She assured him that if Antonio griped about it, she’d tell him where he could shove it and Sami laughed until he hiccuped while she curled up a fist and shook it in the air menacingly. By the time he'd calmed down, Bayley had assured him that he was worth every ounce of affection that he gave to everyone, and he thanked her. Maybe he was.

Later that night, in his own bed he sent a text message to Corey and asked if he could call him so that they could talk, but the response he got was dismissive, something about not wanting to 'chat it up'. After trying to stress the urgency and still being denied, not for any important reason beyond Corey not being in the mood, citing that Sami ‘talked too much’. It was probably supposed to be playful. It still hurt. He debated waiting until he saw him next to discuss this. This could wait, it wasn't worth annoying Corey over.

But then Sami shook his head and told Corey that he didn’t want to do this anymore. Corey responded by calling him a ‘loser’, followed by ‘wait, are you serious?’.  
  
Sami silenced his phone and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway you should read chapter 11 of Syncopation again after reading this if you want a swift kick in the emotions


	3. Lilies and Lilacs

The plan was for everyone to meet up at Black Trumpet Bistro for 8, but Emma arrived half an hour early and took a seat at the bar, the bangles on her wrist jangling as she pulled her ID out of a sequined purple clutch. As she waited for the bartender, the group chat was hastily scrolled through to make sure that she didn’t miss anything, ignoring the treacherous thoughts that lurked in the back of her mind as she secretly hoped that maybe they’d all have to reschedule.

And oh god, it wasn’t the girls themselves, she loved them to death; they’d all been steadfast friends since Freshmen orientation and were inseparable since then. It was just...when they were all in a group, things seemed to move too quickly and she always felt a little lost in the mix. That wasn’t their fault at all! Hell, this get-together wasn’t even about her; everyone’s attention would be on Sasha, for being the first to get hired in their field after graduation, with the added bonus that it was Alexa’s only night off. Emma would probably be able to just hang back and enjoy everyone’s company without having to participate too much. Still, a drink in her system would at least ease her up a little bit.

“Ready to order, hun?” a midwestern twang caused Emma to look up from her screen and directly into the face of a model. Or at least the she looked like one, but she was across the bar and poised like she was ready to take an order and smelled like lilies and lilacs. Emma blinked and tried to focus on anywhere other than bare shoulders.

“Yes.” Words finally materialized from the ether, thank god, and instinctively Emma thrust her ID out for the bartender to take. As it was glanced over, she tried to recall drink names. “Sex on the Beach?” Oh _god **really**_.

“Comin’ right up!” The bartender winked and handed back the ID before moving over to a grab highball glass, then set it down in order to gather the ingredients to pour into a shaker, and really given the size of this women’s biceps she probably didn’t need to shake it more than once. But she did, and Emma tried not to watch, praying for someone to post something in the group chat so it’d yank her attention away. The woman came back over, just finished placing an orange garnish on the rim of the glass, and slid it over while Emma fished out her credit card and handed it over. “You startin’ a tab?”

“Nah, it’ll just be this one.” A sip was gingerly taken from the cocktail, and as the bartender turned to face the register and charge the card, Emma gathered courage that only a fruity drink could provide and squeaked out, “Your hair is really pretty!”

“Oh, thanks!” she looked over her shoulder and smiled brightly. Two receipts and a pen were placed in front of Emma, and she hastily scrawled a tip amount and her signature. “I have a _great_ girl in town that does it for me, I can give you her number if you want!”

Before she could respond, the bartender had pulled out another pen and wrote down a phone number and the name _Carmella_ on the back of the receipt deemed ‘customer copy’, and Emma safely tucked it in her clutch. “Thanks, I’ll look into her.”

“Tell ‘er Dana sent’cha, we’ll both get a discount that way.” She winked again and Emma laughed. “So y’here by yourself tonight?”

“Oh, no, I’ve got some friends coming by soon.” Emma gave a little shrug and took another sip as Dana leaned in with an elbow on the bar and a hand on her hip. The obvious was addressed and they asked about one another’s accents. Dana had so many questions about life in Australia and whether or not everything there was poisonous, if kangaroos were really as abundant as TV made it seem, and if Emma had ever met a real life koala; her tone was so earnest that Emma was happy to oblige, even if she’d gotten the same questions so many times over since starting college in Portsmouth (even though she had moved to the States many years before). By the time that Emma’s phone vibrated from a text that Sasha and Summer had arrived, the drink had barely been touched. She frowned at her screen and looked back up. “Well, that’s me.”

“Alright, play time’s over, then. It was nice talkin’ to ya, Emma.” Dana smiled again.

“You too, Dana.” Quietly, Emma slipped off the barstool and walked in the direction of the restaurant’s entrance, only to come face-to-face with the pair as they were on their way to being seated. The three exchanged hugs and giggles, Sasha and Summer quick to tease Emma about getting her drink on so early, and informed her that Alexa was running a little behind. After they were all seated, orders for more drinks were placed, and the trio began to catch up on what they'd all been up to over the past few weeks. Summer talked about the internship in Portland that she was in the middle of, and how she'd just gotten an apartment up there with her boyfriends ("who are also boyfriends with one another", she explained). Of course they knew all of the details about Sasha’s upcoming position, but they let her outline them yet again because she was so excited, her hands in front of her face as she’d laugh out an apology only to be assured that it was perfectly fine and there was nothing to be sorry for. 

Thankfully, Alexa showed up before Emma was able to get into her own situation, not wanting to explain that she had to stay in her undergrad program for another year because she’d all but failed last semester due to a nasty bout of depression that she failed to communicate to her professors about. At least Alexa would still be around, since she was enrolled part-time, and a few of their classes even overlapped in the Fall semester! Really, it wasn’t the end of the world, even if it felt like it would be a month ago. 

Alexa had been quick to interject with what she’d been up to, how she had taken a second job at a local café that worked with her schedule, a necessity since she finally ditched her slob roommates and got a cute studio with brick walls and loft sleeping area over the kitchenette and a metal fire escape. Everyone seemed to be doing wonderful, and it was wonderful to see. Emma would get there eventually as well, she just got set back a little bit, and she idylly stirred at her drink while the others animatedly talked about plans for the future.

The waiter came by with drinks and the food order was placed, and from off to the side Emma could see the bar and could see Dana happily chatting it up with another patron, her perfectly white teeth bright in contrast to the perfectly applied fuchsia lipstick, and her nose wrinkling as she laughed at what must have been a good joke. But then Dana looked up and gave and a small wave in the general direction of the table, and Emma looked left to right, only to realize that **she** was the recipient of the wave and it dawned on her that she might have accidentally been staring; face now warm, she ducked her head a little and tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear before shyly returning the wave, then turned her attention back to present company.

Food was served and another round of drinks were ordered, except for Alexa who had work in the morning, and it dawned on Emma that this might be the last time the four of them would be able to get together like _this_. A hush came over the table, smiles simultaneously softened to something a bit less, and the others must have realized it as well. Of course there was Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, as well as text messages and Skype, and Sasha yet again tried to sell them on signing up for Tumblr accounts, but late night get togethers of binge-watching nostalgic oddities like Roseanne and Sailor Moon and cooking up too many pizza rolls and stresscrying over term papers was...done, effectively. At least as a group. And it hadn’t sunk at all in until now.

“You guys,” Sasha laughed as she brought a hand to her brow, trying to cover her eyes. “Like, you’re gonna have to come out and visit, right?” And they assured her they would, that New York City wasn’t too far away and she’d have to accommodate for all four of them in her luxurious rat-infested closet-sized apartment. Her response was to flip them all off and retract her invitation. The check arrived amidst the banter, and Summer, Alexa, and Emma all had to practically beat Sasha back from adding her debit card into the mix. 

Once the bill was paid and they were all out of the restaurant and back on the sidewalk, one-by-one they hugged and assured one another they’d be in touch. A few minutes later Alexa walked towards downtown, saying her apartment was only a few blocks away and she had to get up early. Sasha and Summer rode in together, so they said goodbyes as well and Emma was by herself. She exhaled heavily and made her way back to the car, so ready to slip out of these heels and reaching into her pocket to pull out her keys and-

Where were her keys?

“Emma, don’t panic now,” she mumbled in a definitely not panicky tone, trying to recall if maybe she’d left them anywhere in the bistro, maybe at the bar. “Let them be there and not-” She approached her car and peered into the window, groaning loudly.

They were. In. The Car. Of course. The handle was tugged at, because maybe if she was a fool enough to leave them in the car she was a fool enough to leave it unlocked, but it didn’t yield.

“AUGH!” Emma threw her head back and yelled to the night sky, hoping that maybe there was a god out there that could hear how very cross she was at her current predicament.

“Augh?” came a mimicking voice from behind her, and Emma whipped her head around to get a look at the punk that wanted a piece of a woman highly inconvenienced and kind of distressed about a lot of things, her eyes widening when she saw it was Dana. “You alright there, hun?”

“Oh geez,” snorted Emma, and she ran her hands over her face in embarrassment. “Yeah. No. Just locked myself out, like y’do.” 

“Aw, oh no, that sucks!” Dana tutted sympathetically. “Do you have AAA?”

“No...” She’d meant to renew her membership a few months back, sometime before everything had temporarily gone down hill.

“That’s alright, lemme give them a call.” A large Betsey Johnson handbag was put on the hood of the car and Dana fished through it, pulling out wads of several receipts, her own car keys, a phone, pepper spray, no less than three packs of gum and half a container of Tic-Tacs (which she offered and Emma declined), and finally her wallet. After another minute of sorting through various cards, she came reaching her target, and exclaimed, “Here we go!”

The number on the card was dialed and Dana explained to the person on the other line that she’d been locked out of her car and needed assistance with getting it open, then ended the call after giving her thanks. “Alright, they’re gonna be here in like an hour, but sometimes they’re later than that.”

“Oh my god, _thank you_. I’m such an idiot, my brain’s been all over the place lately and-”

“Hey, c’mon. We’ve all been there.” A dismissive wave was given, and Emma felt a little less silly over the situation. “But y’know, maybe you shouldn’t be out here by yourself? You wanna hang out in my car until they get here?”

“Huh?” Emma’s head shot up. “Oh no, I couldn’t trouble you like that, you’ve already done so much for me tonight!”

“Yeah OK like I’m gonna let a cute girl be by herself at night alone. Girl I’m a bartender, I deal with humanity’s creepiest on a regular basis. It’s fine, the only thing I gotta do tonight is feed my fat kitty dinner, and she can wait another hour or two for that.”

“What kind of a cat?” Despite initial protests, Emma followed Dana for a few yards until they approached another car that suddenly chirped.

“She’s a ragdoll, and she so cute! Do you wanna see?” Dana opened the driver’s side door, and gestured for Emma to get in on the passenger’s side

“Yes, of course!” Maybe that was too enthusiastic of a response, but it seemed to make Dana perk up more while she flipped through her phone and they both took their respective seats. The phone was handed over, and Emma grinned at the photo on the screen of the large white puffball with bright blue eyes. The cat’s name was ‘Sassy’, and Emma learned that she lived up to her name, that Dana got her since she was a kitten, and she was currently on a special diet food because the vet said Sassy was far too voluptuous for her own good. 

“But I tell her that she’s perfect as she is.” Dana giggled as Emma handed the phone back over.

“All cats are,” Emma agreed, and then it was quiet. “Dana.”

“Yeah?”

“What does it take to become a bartender? Do you have to take classes for it?”

“I mean, there _are_ schools, right? But a lotta times if you’re personable and a fast learner, they’ll just train you on site. Like I started as a server here and they were short staffed at the bar so I offered to help.”

“Gotcha.” 

“You wanna learn or something?”

“Well…” Honestly, Emma wasn’t sure. She’d just been looking to keep the conversation going at first, but now. “Maybe? Lately I’ve been kind of running on fumes, and probably no thanks to school. Just kind of wondering if I need to make some changes. Reevaluate a few things. I dunno. Does that even make sense?”

“I guess?” Dana shrugged. It probably sounded ridiculous. “But hey, if you want, I can see if they’d let me take you on.”

Emma puckered her mouth in thought before she nodded. “Yeah. You know what, yeah. Would you?”

“Sure! You want me to shoot you a text when I find out?" Dana's thumbs were still on her screen, the Contacts menu already pulled up, and Emma nodded again with a small smile.


	4. Scheduled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: There is evidence of an toxic situation towards the end of this chapter where boundaries are overstepped, as well as a pretty vile insult

Worn pages of the scheduler were flipped through, and Baron did some quick mental math to figure out how many more tattoos he had left to go before he was permitted to take the test and get his license. So far it looked like he a few shy of 20 to go, and if he could get booked for the next month or two like this, he’d theoretically be ready to start by the Fall semester where impulsive 18 year olds that were no longer under parental supervision were eager to engage in some harmless rebellion. And thank god, because if he had to stay much longer in his aunt’s in-law apartment, he was going to lose his mind.

The clock on the wall read 11:00am, so Baron moved over to the door and unlocked it, flipping the switch on the neon Open sign, and wondered how late Corey would be this morning. It’d been going on for over a week now, and it hadn’t yet fucked up the schedule too badly but was probably only a matter of time. Just as he turned his back, the door chimed and Corey stormed past Baron, stomping his feet loudly and throwing his shit haphazardly behind the counter. 

“Morning,” Baron flatly stated as he prepped his station, and Corey didn’t even acknowledge him, instead turning the stereo on and loaded up Nine Inch Nails. It was going to be a long day.

The door chimed again, and in walked Baron’s first client. Thank fuck it was Finn. The dude was a little weird and had too many comic book characters on his arms, but he was quiet and tipped just fine. He’d gone to Corey a few weeks ago to get some work touched up and get a consultation for a future back piece, but today he was just looking for something simple for his forearm and Baron offered to take care of it. It was easy to tell that Finn was apprehensive at first, but Corey assured him that Baron was capable and he’d personally fix it if it sucked (later, Baron was told “don’t fuck this up” by Corey).

“Hey man, c’mon up,” Baron waved him over as Finn approached the counter, and Corey looked up to shoot a glare over at the station. “What? I know who it is,” sneered Baron.

“Hi,” Finn quietly greeted and took a seat. They went over the design and placement again, paperwork was signed, then Baron readied the stencil, pulled on a pair of black latex gloves, and stencil was applied. The tattoo machine was carefully set up with the needle and tubing, and placing his left index finger and thumb just under the design itself on Finn’s forearm and stretching the skin taut, the right turned on the machine and it began to vibrate. A few strokes were made, excess ink wiped away with a cloth, and then more strokes laid down until the outline was completed. 

There was only occasional wincing, but Finn was mostly calm for the duration. He politely inquired how the apprenticeship was coming along, but beyond that there wasn’t much conversation, and that was how Baron preferred it. Corey eventually stopped by, standing in the doorway to observe, his intense gaze felt and bringing an uneasy tension to the room.

“So where’s your coffee boy been lately?” Baron finally broke the silence, eager to get something out of his grumpy employer and not have to listen to this fucking industrial bullshit over the speakers anymore.

“Don’t care. Fuck ‘im.” Corey snarled and was quick to take off. 

“Alright,” grumbled Baron, filling in the linework. Once the entire area was filled with black, he waited for Finn to look it over before wiping it down with rubbing alcohol and applying the cream and then the plastic wrap. 

“Thanks man!” Finn smiled, handing a $20 bill to Baron, which was swiftly pocketed; once he was alone again, he tossed the worn pair of gloves into the trash to put on as fresh pair and began the process of sterilizing the work station. Yet again the door chimed, and several minutes later Corey was leaned up against the doorway.

“Dude, what’s your deal lately?” Baron never took his eyes off his work, his tone even as he addressed Corey.

“The fuck you on about, Corbin?” Corey’s tone, however, dripped with hostility, and Baron looked up.

“You’re in a shit mood, more than usual.” A glove was pulled off. “Coming in late...c’mon man, I’m not here to tell you how to run your shop-”

“Then don’t.”

“Why’d you get so shitty in front of a customer?”

“Why’d you bring up Sami?”

“Oh, so now he has a name?” They made eye contact, Corey’s nostrils flaring. 

“Fuck off, Corbin.” Again Corey left, and shortly after the music was cranked up even louder. They avoided one another for the rest of the day, and Baron kept busy with sweeping, mopping, and studying for the exam in between appointments.

As Baron sat at the counter and scrolled through the email account to see if anyone else had applied for the receptionist position they'd posted on Craigslist, a dark-haired woman walked through the door.

"2 o'clock appointment with Graves," she stated, and Baron looked over the scheduler.

"Paige? Have a seat, I'll go find him." Baron got up and checked both Corey's station and his office, but he was in neither place. Further towards the back he checked, in the bathroom and storage closet, but they were unoccupied as well. Just as Baron was about to call him, he saw the backdoor propped open and moved towards it, his right hand on it and ready to push it all the way.

"Please, could you just...leave me alone?" A slightly nasally voice that Baron recognized as Sami's came from the other side of the door.

"What the hell was wrong with what we had going on?" Corey sounded hoarse, as though he'd been yelling.

"We had _nothing_ going on, Corey. I told you how I felt, but you, **you** didn't want actually want anything with me, OK. I like..." There was a crack in the voice. "Fuck I _liked_ you, but I was just something for you to pass the time with and...and I get that now. You could've just told me that you didn't...you lead me on, man. I shoulda got the hint when you kept brushing me off, and I was too..." 

"C'mon, you're being dramatic." There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the sound of shuffling feet. 

"No! Don't-"

"Fine! You know what? Fuck you, too. You know what actually you were? To me?"

"I don't-" It sounded like the start of an exhausted plea that was cut off. " _Back. Off._ "

"An experiment." Another pause, and then Corey's voice elevated. "A clingy, obnoxious cockslu-"

What sounded like a slap rang loudly through the back alley, and then a door slammed and Baron backed away. He returned to the lobby and informed Paige that it was just going to be a bit longer, and had her fill out some paperwork while she waited. Corey eventually returned, one side of his face red and swollen, and he quietly beaconed Paige to follow him to his station.


	5. Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place at an animal hospital, and while nothing medically descriptive (read: gross) is contained in this chapter, the topic of euthanasia is a part of it. While this is a very difficult topic, as someone that has worked in an animal hospital, I do request that everyone that is able to please read on, especially if you love animals. It's important to empathize with end-of-life care, arguably the most important part of a pet's life, and what an average veterinary staff endures on a daily basis.

All three phone lines lit up, and Kevin groaned loudly in between putting each one on hold.

“Cassady Animal Clinic, is this an emergency? No? Please hold.” The first was put on hold, and then onto the next. “Cassady Animal Clinic, is this an emergency? Maybe? Is your pet vomiting, bleeding, or having trouble walking? No? Please hold.” The third line thankfully seemed to be grabbed by someone else, so Kevin returned to the first line, only to find that they just needed a prescription refilled so he transferred the call over to the automated refill line. Those were the easiest calls on a Saturday morning.

They only had room for three fit-in appointments today, but of course Dr. Cassady had approved of another three, one of which was a potentially blocked male cat, and the staff knew it would be a very long day. Being short staffed didn’t help, but Emma had put in her two weeks to go be a bartender or some shit, so Kevin was back up in reception for the day. God he hated reception.

OK ‘hate’ was a strong word, even for Kevin. Reception was difficult. Kevin was actually initially hired as a receptionist, because he was taking courses via Penn Foster to become a certified Veterinarian Technician, and since no one in the area had any open positions for a tech, this was the next best thing until then. When they were busy enough that they needed the extra help in back they were able to schedule Kevin for a few of the hours and begin his training, **but** it came with the understanding that he would still assist in reception when they needed his help. And right now, in the summer, the season of fleas and and parvovirus and HBCs (hit-by-car), the season of never-enough-receptionists, Kevin found himself at the front desk again and pocketing too many pens in his scrub pockets as the day went on.

It wasn’t all bad, but on a Saturday in the summer, it was mostly bad; it was always people that looked shit up on Google to try to help their limping dog and gave it ibuprofin, and then wondered why a week later it was barely moving at all and had bloody diarrhea, but they didn’t have the money to bring their potentially dying dog in. Then they finally agreed to come down, after Kevin grit his teeth and had to bite his tongue from yelling at them while he informed them that their pet was probably going to die if left untreated, and after the necessary tests and medicine and the appointment itself, and even after waving the emergency visit fee, they’d yell at Kevin and claim that they were just trying to rip people off, and he couldn’t yell back that maybe they shouldn’t have a fucking dog if they couldn’t afford treatment. Then they’d sign promissory note that’d never actually get paid back, and it’d get added to the ever-expanding files in the office that took up like two whole cabinets from as far back as five years ago.

Or they’d sign their pet over to the hospital to avoid costs entirely. Kevin had gotten a three-legged pit bull and a one-eyed FIV+ cat that way. Thank god his roommate didn’t care.

Saturdays in the summer meant people finding baby birds and bunnies in their backyards and calling Kevin a monster for not allowing them to bring it in, even though he’d try to patiently explain that they needed to call animal control for that and there was nothing the clinic could _legally_ do. It meant lacerations and parasites, and the swell of the summer heat only made everyone more irritated, Kevin included, for having to sit in the lobby with their unwell and scared pet, only to fork out money for a bill that would hardly sustain the clinic.

It meant euthanasias. Oh god it meant euthanasias. At first, Kevin wasn’t sure if he could handle _that_ part, but knew it came with the job. The client crying on the phone as it was scheduled with a shaky breath saying “it’s time”, then the eerie calm as they checked in and were ushered into a room that had been prepared for them and their pet, their family member. The consent form was signed. The first time Kevin had gone through the process with a client, he’d soon after walked out back to where the kennels were and bawled his eyes out, only to try to cover it up when he went back inside. Everyone got it, though. Allergies were bad around this time of year.

“How do you get used to the euthanasias?” he had later asked Dr. Cassady, or rather “Colin” when they weren’t around clients, as he dropped off an armload of medical charts from clients that needed to be called back onto his desk.

“Well,” Colin removed his glasses, then looked up at Kevin from where he sat in his desk chair. “Y’don’t, really, but y’gotta. Here’s the thing, we’re being entrusted with **the** single most important part of an animal’s life, y’know? And some’a these patients...they been comin’ in since my mom owned the place and I was just a tech assistant, cleanin’ the kennels and moppin’ the piss off the floor. I’ve known ‘em my their whole life.” He exhaled and Kevin scratched his nose. “So you owe it to them t’be strong for that moment, ‘cause they can’t be. ‘Cause their owner’s already had to be to make the hardest call they’ll probably ever make. It ain’t about you or me or anyone else but them.”

“Still sucks,” Kevin muttered. 

“It does!” Colin laughed. “No denyin’ that. But lemme tell ya, Kev, despite the chaos we deal with every day an’ all the bad shit, being the source of comfort for a client durin' that moment is the most humbling thing you'll _ever_ experience. You give ‘em the strength that they need to let go."

And Dr. Cassady was right, even if Kevin didn't ever admit it. There was something morbid as it was elating about being the figure that someone relied on for that intimate and sorrowful moment. Kevin sort of became a specialist on telling people that what they were going through sucked, and not telling them that what they were going through was "for the best" because fuck that, it hurt and the empathy seemed to help with the healing. And he'd sit in the small exam room with little old ladies that sniffled and had to say goodbye to their domestic longhair cats and big dudes that rivaled his own size that had openly wept about the loss of their teacup yorkie.

So yeah, the reception desk wasn’t great. It was thankless and a constant source of aggravation and wasn’t what Kevin wanted to do ever in his life again, especially on a Saturday morning. But he cracked his knuckles, brashly declared to his co-workers that it was now the Kevin Owens Show, and took the damn phone calls like a champ. After the clinic was closed he looked over the list of call-backs, patients that had their appointments earlier in the week and just needed to be followed up with, dialed numbers, and was mostly sent directly to voicemail. He held his breath and dialed the number of someone that had lost their 15 year old yellow lab due to a stroke to tell them they’d gotten the ashes in from the crematory, as well as to check up on them and express his condolences; the client answered their phone and they remembered Kevin from earlier, thanking him for his kindness, and that they’d adopted a new dog, a 5 year old mixed breed from a local shelter. 

He happily scheduled the first appointment for them and tried not to cry again after they hung up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we cry a lot at animal hospitals, jsyk


	6. Signs

Craigslist and Indeed proved to be fruitless endeavours for Dean, and even after Roman had sat down with him and tried to revise his resume and cover letter into something cohesive, there was still the concern about previous job references. 

“What if I used some’ve my old customers from Ohio?” Dean wearily laughed.

“The ones you dealt dope to?” Roman raised an eyebrow.

“It was good stuff!” offered Dean defensively, and Roman just shook his head.

“You sign up for unemployment yet?”

“Got denied.” Dean exhaled and folded his arms behind his head.

“Gonna contest it?”

“Nah.” Dean knew that he was getting eyed at wearily, but he didn’t care. The pity sucked, but what could you even do? “Was thinkin’ of running downtown and passin’ out my resume to a few shops. Jus’ something for now, y’know?”

“Yeah, definitely.” Roman nodded, hitting Ctrl+P on his keyboard, and somewhere in the background a printer whirred to life. After a few clicks of the mouse, he got up and then soon returned with several sheets of paper in hand, extending them towards Dean. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Dean looked over the five copies of his resume, admiring Roman’s formatting and wished that he comprehended literally anything about computers, how they were printed on really nice paper that was thick and cream colored and almost felt like fabric; clipped to the top left-hand corner was a stack of Roman’s business card, and he removed one to read it better.

“They’re gonna ask you for references, and since we couldn’t come up with more than myself, just hand ‘em this.”

“What if they call up Shield or Authority or whatever it is now?” Dean wearily asked.

“All they can do is confirm that you worked there. Can’t say nothing good or bad.”

“A’ight.” Dean shifted uncomfortably, still not 100% convinced, then with a thumb hitched over his shoulder he quietly mumbled, “Hey, I think I’m gonna go.”

“Sure.” Slowly Roman nodded, the worry or pity or whatever he tried to hide but simply couldn’t so obvious. “You need anything, let me know?”

“You got it,” chuckled Dean, and they briefly hugged before he left Roman’s house, which was now sort of weird to go to and be reminded of things like stability. He pressed the button on his keychain to unlock the Camaro, which as stupid as impulsive as it was to purchase outright from the dealership a few years back, it was now a bill that he didn’t have to worry about. Still, it was worth considering selling it to buy something more sensible and use the rest of the money for things that could be paramount for survival. 

Because yet again, everything hinged on survival.

And as Dean drove around aimlessly, there was something admittedly comforting about slipping back into what he knew best, what he’d done for most of his life. The past four years were a vacation, more or less, or so he told himself. He could turn a shitty basement studio apartment into a palace and turn Maruchan ramen noodles into a gourmet feast; it was exciting, to exist on the fringes of poverty and weave them into gold. Fuck, Pinterest was built on that very concept! Why didn’t he just invent Pinterest?! But regardless, he’d dealt with so much worse, it would all be fine.

He submitted copies of his resume to a few places: a local hardware store, a liquor store, the Kittery trading post, and finally a roadside clam shack. The fifth was held onto and needed to be saved for something special as he found himself unwilling to just casually hand over something printed on fancy paper that Roman gave to him. His stomach rumbled and he needed food, so after a productive morning of job hunting, Dean stopped into his favorite burger joint on Congress St for lunch and took a booth near one of the windows with a newspaper in hand to glance over the classifieds section.

While Dean sipped at a pint of Sam Adams and came face-to-face with both a miniscule job listings section and the realization that times really had changed, he knew that he probably really was going to have to get better at job hunting online. Grumbling, he dipped a steak fry into some malt vinegar and stared out the window, his gaze hardly focused on a few buildings across the street. As he absently munched, some guy came into view and walked over to a sandwich board that sat in front of one of the stores, looked around, and then snagged it and began to walk back in the direction that he came from; Dean wouldn't have cared, but he saw 'HELP WANTED' written in chalk on the board, so he stood up and tossed a $20 bill on the table, then rushed outside. 

As soon as he made it across the road and landed on the opposite sidewalk, the door from the store that the sandwich board once sat in front of swung open, and another guy ran out of it, his eyes wide and he looked right at Dean. In a panicky voice, he asked,”Did you where my sign went?!”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean managed to get out, then pointed.”Went that way.”

Just as the other man seemed ready to take off in the other direction, he restrained himself momentarily. “Did the person that took it have a buncha tattoos?”

“Think so, yeah.” Dean nodded, and the man sighed heavily. “Dark hair, sunglasses...”

“Of course.” It seemed as though he’d deflated entirely, and rather than go off in the direction Dean had pointed, he simply mumbled “Thanks” and turned around to go back inside.

“Wait, you’re not gonna go lookin’ for it?” 

“Nope.” The man popped his ‘p’ loudly, and Dean followed him into the building without a second thought. “I’m gonna call the police and file a report.”

“That gonna work?” Dean looked around, at all of the vinyl records, CDs, and band posters, and the man turned back around with a raised eyebrow before he shook his head.

“Probably not. It didn’t work when the hanging sign went missing, either. Still, I don’t have any other options. Telling him to knock it off hasn’t worked, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a brick got thrown through one of the windows next.” He moved behind a counter that housed the cash register, taking his hat off and running fingers through his hair. “So uh, did you need help looking for anything, or-”

“Are you hiring?” Dean quickly responded, and the other man looked surprised, then chuckled.

“Yeah, actually. Just looking for an extra hand to run things around here, that’s all. Nothing too exciting.”

“I got hands,” Dean cracked a grin, and to his surprise, the man laughed. “I’m Dean.”

“Sami.” He reached his arm out across the counter and they shook hands. “I’m the owner here. So why would you wanna work at a record store, Dean?”

“I need a job?” Dean shrugged and Sami stared at him for a moment. “Music’s cool, too. I guess.”

“That’s…” Sami snorted. “That’s rather honest.”

“Well isn’t that why people apply to jobs? Because they need them to, iunno, eat an’ shit?” The moment the obscenity slipped past Dean’s lips, he grimaced. “Fuck, sorr- AUGH. Sorry. Sorry.” It looked like Sami was holding his breath, the corners of his lips struggling to not turn upwards.

“You don’t talk like that in front of customers, right?” 

“No, god. I’ve been talkin’ to customers for years, now. Jus’ tryna to stretch my wings a bit, use my skills somewhere much more effective, y’know?”

“What’d you do before?”

“Marketing.” Dean scratched at his facial scruff, aware that he hadn’t shaved in a while.

“Yeah? And you wanna join the illustrious world of specialty retail?” Sami’s hands holded in front of him.

“I’m not a 9 to 5 guy, as it turns out. I gotta be where the people are, y’know? Like that’s why you own a store, right?”

“I guess, yeah.” Sami’s eyes trailed off to the side only for a second, but it was enough for Dean to catch, and it was akin to when a shark smelled blood.

“It’s gotta be rewarding, I imagine. Being a cornerstone to the music community ‘round here, especially with all th’ college kids that need that kinda outlet.”

“It’s pretty cool,” Sami admitted, his face lightly flushed. “Don’t know if it’s like… _that_ important.”

“C’mon, yeah it is. You remember bein’ in highschool, right? Like when you discovered music was the most important thing and sometimes was the only thing there for you? We all went through it, whether it helped soothe like Dylan or stoked the flames of social awareness like Dead Kennedys.” Dean did his best to not crack a smile as he witnessed a much more open and earnest looking Sami, thankful he soaked in his surroundings just before this impromptu interview. “An’ now you get to go on and be supportive for the restless youth, guide ‘em to hope and help ‘em feel less lonely.”

“You got a resume, Dean?” Sami cleared his throat, and despite previous hesitations, Dean handed his last copy over to him. It was glanced over briefly, Sami’s eyes occasionally darting upwards. “So you don’t work at Shield Marketing anymore, huh?”

“Nah.” Somehow, Dean kept himself composed.

“Hm,” was Sami’s only verbal response for a few long moments, and Dean looked around again while he seemed distracted.

“So uh…” Dean racked his brain. “Y’mind me asking what the duties of helpin’ out around here would be?”

“Manning the register, taking phone calls, cleaning, putting stuff away, inventory. Stuff like that.” 

“What about puttin’ up stuff for sales, like around the holidays? Or special occasions?” Yet again Dean studied Sami, keeping his gaze steady. “Like y’got stuff for when the college kids come around in September, right? Flyers an’ ads an’ stuff?”

“Kinda, yeah.” That was a no, Dean could tell.

“Great. Good. I definitely could be an asset, could totally handle all that stuff you said.”

“Sure.” Sami nodded, then unclipped the business card and studied it. “Who’s Roman?”

“A former co-worker. Also my reference.”

“Ah.” It was set down. “Cool. Well, Dean, lemme think about it for a bit, and I’ll give you a call later.”

“Definitely. I look forward to hearing from you.” Dean grinned and extended his hand, which Sami took, and they shook again. “And y’know, if I see your sign, I’ll let ya know.”

“Oh god.” Sami’s face briefly fell, but he recovered quickly. “Thanks, man. I’m sure it’s somewhere close by. Let’s hope the police can come through.”

“I’m sure Portsmouth’s finest won’t have any troubles with the case. Anyway, see ya.” With a few fingers Dean waved goodbye and left, and after he was outside once again he looked at Sami through the window, who now had his head in his hands. For a few beats, he debated which direction to go, looking towards the direction of where the sign went before it had disappeared. Curiosity caused one foot to be put in front of the other, and that curiosity burned intensely when he noted a tattoo shop just next door; unfortunately, the windows were mostly blacked out, which made it impossible to see inside. 

So inside Dean went.

“Hey man, what can I do for you?” The man behind the counter asked as Dean stepped through the door. Dark hair. Tattoos, and lots of them. Dean approached the counter, and spotted what was definitely a sandwich board folded up and hardly tucked away.

“Yeah, you hiring right now?” Dean leered, his elbows propped up on the countertop as he leaned in.

“Nah, shop’s already got an apprentice. Maybe in a few months check back?” 

“Then why y’got that sign?” A hand gestured towards it, and the tattooed man’s eyebrows knits. “Y’know, if you’re not hiring. Seems silly t’have, s’all.”

“Look man, I don’t want any trouble.” The man started, his hands held up.

“Cool, me neither.” They locked eyes, Dean’s grin widening as the other swallowed hard. 

“Just take the fuckin’ thing!” The man exclaimed, turned to pick the sandwich board up and hurled it over the counter, nearly hitting Dean upside the head and it landed several feet away from the door with a loud clatter. “Fuck, I hope he sucks your dick or something for saving the day, since he’s too much of a pussy to come over himself.”

“Man, me too!” Dean tried to joke, but apparently it wasn’t funny and in hindsight was kind of a weird response. Oh well. Casually, Dean strolled towards the sign, yelled out, “Anyway, thanks!”, and left. He glanced it over, frowning when he spotted that one of the wooden legs had cracked and had splintered. Maybe some duct tape could fix this. Tucking it under his arm, he opened the door to Sami’s record store again, and couldn’t say that he was expecting the unguarded look of shock he received.

“Dean, what the-”

“Sami, my dude! I was heading over to my car, when check out what I found hanging out on the way to it! Crazy, huh?” Dean nervously chuckled. “Uh, leg’s a bit busted. The dude must’a like dropped it or somethin’, but maybe it’s an easy fix?”

Sami covered his mouth, and Dean propped the sandwich board against a wall, then rubbed the back of his neck. Just before he could say his goodbyes for a second time, Sami blurted out, “Hey, uh...if you were to work here, how soon could you start?”

“As soon as possible.”


End file.
